


The Spy Who Yelled At Me

by queenofchildren



Series: Just Like James Bond. Pretty much. Well, almost. [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bickering, Doctor Clarke, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Teamwork, sort of, spy Bellamy, together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: Clarke isn't entirely thrilled when she finds out her best friend Monty's new boyfriend is a spy. Nor is she very impressed by said boyfriend's best friend and fellow spy Bellamy Blake. But when Monty goes missing, Clarke finds that the brash, pushy agent may be the only one who can help her find him.





	The Spy Who Yelled At Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to my Minty spy AU "The Spy and the Movie Guy", although it ended up pretty different from that story, and it's not necessary to have read it to understand this one.  
> Warning: Clarke is being a bit of an asshole in the beginning. But, as always, because she wants to protect a friend and thinks it's the only way. Oh, and so is Bellamy.  
> Also, the title is a pun on a Bond movie title, "The Spy Who Loved Me".  
> And Bellamy's spy activities have as much basis in reality as those in any spy movie, which is to say none at all (I hope).

"Your new boyfriend does _what_?"

Sitting on one of the two bean bag chairs that double as a sofa in Jasper and Monty's apartment, Clarke has just heard the craziest story ever. If she heard it from anyone else, she'd think they were pulling her leg. But this is _Monty_ , who's always been the most grounded one of her friends, so she has to admit defeat and accept that this is in fact a true story.

"He works for an intelligence agency. International."

"He's a _spy_."

"I'm not sure if that's the official term…" Monty starts, then cuts himself off when she glares at him. "Yes, he's a spy."

"And he didn't _tell_ you?"

"Well, when we first met he was actually in the middle of doing his spy thing, so he assumed I knew. And then… I don't know, I guess he never found a good moment to bring it up."

"Well, he should have looked harder for one!"

"It's not that big a deal, Clarke." Monty starts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Is it?"

"He _lied_ to you!" Clarke explodes. "You've been dating for four months now and he failed to mention that, oh, he's a _spy_."

"Technically, we weren't _dating_ the first two months," Monty starts, but Clarke is too steamed up now to accept his apologies. Her friend, who is honestly the smartest, sweetest, best person she knows, got lied to, and she's not going to just let that go. Not even for a guy who probably knows about a dozen ways to kill her with his bare hands.

"And what does that even mean, he's "in intelligence"? Does that entail listening in on people's conversations? Toppling foreign governments? Assassinations?"

Monty twitches his shoulders, a little helpless.

"He couldn't go into details but… Nate said that he's had to do things he didn't like."

"Oh, he _had to_ , did he now?"

"Look, Clarke, I know it's a lot, but things aren't always as black and white as you think they are…"

"And sometimes they are! Spying and possible murder aside, he _still_ lied to you. Is that what you want in a relationship?" Through the haze of anger in her head, Clarke is aware that she's possibly projecting her own insecurities on the issue. She too has been lied to by someone she trusted, and it has fucked her up. She doesn't want Monty to go through the same thing. 

"Monty, I know you really like him, but this is a big deal. If he's keeping that from you, what else is he holding back on?" 

Monty sighs, then nods defeatedly. "Maybe you're right." 

Clarke hates seeing him like this, hates having to talk him out of dating a guy he's been crazy about for months now. But she's sure that, in the long run, it will be for the best.

When Monty texts her, later, that he broke up with his spy boyfriend, Clarke thinks that will be the last she hears of the international spy community. 

She couldn't be more wrong.

***

 

It's about a week after Monty found out about his boyfriend's whole spy deal and broke up with him, and Clarke is beginning to wonder if telling him to ditch the spy boyfriend was really the best course of action. Because Monty is suffering, quietly but unmistakably, and Clarke doesn't know who to be more angry at: Spy boyfriend for lying to Monty, or herself for convincing him to cut his ties. But then, she didn't really have a choice, did she? 

So when there's a sharp, angry knock at her door one evening, Clarke is just worried and distracted enough to simply open the door without looking through the peephole first - only to find herself face to face with a whole lot of tall, angry, startlingly handsome man.

"You're Clarke?"

She nods dumbly and squints at him to assess if that's an actual tuxedo he's wearing or just a very fancy suit. Either way, it's a lot to process - and reminds her with sudden mortification that she opened the door wearing threadbare pyjama pants and a big, fluffy sweater.

Not that the stranger seems particularly interested in what she's wearing.

"You're the one who broke up Miller and Monty."

The ferociousness of his voice alone is enough to tear her out of her haze and back to the reality of having an angry man standing in front of her - but it's the nature of the accusation that really gets to her.

"I didn't _break them up_! I protected my friend from getting hurt." At least, that was the plan.

"Well, you hurt _my_ friend in the process." His tone makes it clear that he considers this a grave sin. 

Then he actually pushes past her into the apartment, ignoring her cry of protest. Never mind the intrusion though - she's been accused of being a bad friend, and that cannot stand.

"Then maybe your friend shouldn't have lied his ass off for months," she says, determined to hold her ground.

"He had good reasons for that, okay? We can't just go around telling our life story to everyone." 

_'We'_ – so apparently she now has a spy buddy of Monty's spy ex standing in her living room.

Lovely.

"Oh, but you apparently have no problem with dating unsuspecting civilians and telling them a bunch of lies."

"Just like you apparently have no problem meddling in your friend's life and telling him what to do." 

Clarke huffs. The impossible man actually blames _her_ for the whole mess when clearly, it's all spy boyfriend's fault for lying in the first place. But how did he even get to that conclusion? Did Monty tell Miller? It seems unlikely.

"How do you know what I told Monty?"

"Your texts are not encrypted. They're out there in your messenger app for all the world to see." He stops himself, grins smugly. "Well, all the world with the right tech."

"You _spied_ on us?"

"It's literally what I do for a living,"  he deadpans, apparently not the least bit sorry.

Clarke tries her best to convey just with her eyes how very much she's going to kill him, no matter how many concealed weapons he's got on him right now. 

"Well, if your friend put you up to that, I'd say I did the right thing telling Monty to ditch him." 

"He didn't. Coming here was my idea. And where the hell do you get off making those kinds of decisions for other people?" 

"Sorry if I don't want my friend dating a  _murderer_!" 

Impossibly, his face darkens even more.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Probably not - and she can't say that she particularly wants to know. Because tuxedo and model hair and chiseled features aside, the man before her is  _dangerous_. She may not feel like she in particular is in any danger from him right now, but there's a darkness in his eyes that makes her wonder what they've seen him do.  

She suppresses a shiver - she will not let herself be intimidated. 

"Get out, or I'm calling the police." It sounds a bit like an empty threat, all things considered - who knows how many of the forces that be turn a blind eye to his agency's activities? "If you're even answering to them in the first place." 

He rolls his eyes. "Of course we answer to them."

"Well, then you'd better leave now."

He looks like he wants to protest, then decides against it and storms out instead. 

Phew, Clarke thinks as she closes the door, locks it twice and attaches the little chain too. Hopefully that really  _will_ be the last she hears of international spies with no idea of the concept of boundaries. 

She buys one of those text encryption apps anyway, just in case. 

***

 

Two days later, super spy is standing before her door again, angrily waving around a Manila envelope.

"Go away," Clarke growls through the door - this time, she remembered to check before opening it.  

"I won't." 

"Well then have fun standing in the hallway, because I'm not letting you in." 

"You realise I can get that door open in about 3.5 seconds? Faster if I just kick it in." 

"Way to get me to trust you," Clarke calls back. She tries to sound unimpressed, but nevertheless, she quickly darts over to the kitchen to grab the pepper spray she hid in her junk drawer. 

There's silence for a moment, then he's apparently decided to change tack. 

"Look, I didn't come here to threaten you. But Miller's been miserable since Monty broke up with him, and I have a feeling the only person who can do something about that is you. At least let me explain what we do before you judge him, okay?" 

It's a terrible idea, of course, and every brain cell interested in her self-preservation is telling her so. But there's something in his voice, in the urgency of it, that makes her want to trust him.

She opens the door. 

...and regrets it almost immediately, because he swoops in, slaps the envelope on her kitchen table, and barks: "Sit down and listen."

And although she should be angry, or at the very least indignant, about being ordered about like this, Clarke actually obeys and sits down. Because spy guy, it turns out, is very good at ordering people about, and has just the voice for it too. 

She forces herself not to follow that particular train of thought and actually focus on the photos before her. 

The first picture is a grainy mugshot: a pale, bald man holding up one of those identification signs with an angry expression and scarily cold eyes. 

"White supremacist," spy guy explains in a hard voice. "His organisation was planning terrorist attacks in several big cities."

Clarke gasps and presses a hand  to her mouth as he slaps down the next picture, this one of a couple exiting a run-down house. 

"They led a human trafficking ring."

Clarke shudders but doesn't get a break as he keeps slamming down pictures before her, each with a short explanation: Fraud. Arms deals. Drugs.

By the time the folder is empty, Clarke has tears in her eyes, and spy dude is breathing hard.

" _This_ is what we do. And you can look down on us from your high horse, but fact is: the world is better off without these people. So if you'd prefer to be the one getting that filth behind bars, by all means, step up." 

Clarke doesn't know what to say. 

Nodding grimly, he swipes the pictures back into the folder. 

"That's what I thought. Now, I get that it's a lot to wrap your head around. And I'm not saying we're saints - far from it. But we're not the bad guys either. Miller is doing a tough job, and Monty was the best thing in his life. He made him happy, and he deserves that."  
  
There's something in his eyes, a wistful edge in his voice that makes her wonder if he thinks that he too deserves to be happy, or if that's something he reserves for his friends. 

"It's not about the spying, you know. Not entirely." Clarke swallows hard. "It's about the fact that he lied to him."

"He would have told him sooner, if he could have. But he had to make sure he could trust Monty first."

"Well, now Monty can't trust  _him_ anymore."

"Monty can't, or you can't?"  
  
Clarke bristles, annoyed at how quickly he managed to pierce through this issue to the soft, wounded place within her. But before she can get her bearings, he's speaking again, softer this time and a little resigned.

"Listen, I think it's great you're looking out for your friend, I really do. But Monty's a grown man. He's got all the information he needs to make his own decision. You need to let him do that. And you need to give Miller a shot."

" _Does_ he have all the information?"

"He knows what he needs to know. Some things, it's safer for him to be in the dark about."

"So you admit it will be dangerous for him to keep seeing your friend."

Super spy swallows hard. 

"The biggest risk is that he'll lose the person he loves." He lays a hand on her arm, a calming gesture and one that she thinks might be a practiced one - but it works nonetheless. "I promise, I'll make sure nothing happens to your friend."

"You better."

"I will." With that, he gathers up his folder and walks to the door. He's almost there when something occurs to her. 

"How do I know I can trust you? I don't even know your name."

"It's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake." 

Then, after a moment of quick thinking, he grabs the pad of sticky notes and a pen off the side table by the door and writes something down, then hands it to her. 

"There. Now you know where I live. If you ever think your friend Monty is in danger, you can come yell at me."

Then he's gone, and Clarke is standing in her kitchen, clutching a pink post-it note and wondering what the hell just happened. 

***

  
She tries not to think about the mysterious Bellamy Blake much after that, except for small moments where she sees his haunted eyes before her, as if that short moment alone had been branded into her mind. But she does ponder the encounter long enough to come to the conclusion that he may be an ass, but Bellamy was right about one thing: Monty can make his own decisions. After a fruitless evening spent trying to find any trace of her visitor online, Clarke finally gives in and calls Monty instead.

Soon, Monty and his spy boyfriend are back together and, Clarke has to admit, nauseatingly happy. When Monty actually introduces her to the boyfriend in question, she has to admit that he seems like a pretty decent guy. She still can't help but prod him a little bit, to try and get a feel for him - but in the end, if Monty's decided to trust him, she'll have to do the same. 

Apparently, seeing Monty and Miller back together appeases her super spy visitor as well, because she doesn't hear from Bellamy again, and soon almost forgets about him. In fact, if it weren't for the address still stuck to her fridge on a pink post-it note, she'd start to believe the whole thing never happened at all. 

Until the day, that is, when Monty disappears. 

***

 

At first, Clarke doesn't even make the connection between Monty's recent entanglement with the spy community and his not picking up his phone or replying to her texts. She's got a hectic day herself, and, well usually she and Monty are not leading the kind of life where dangerous situations are a frequent occurrence. 

But as soon as the thought occurs to her, Clarke is flooded with the most horrifying images, inspired in no small part by her love for campy action movies - dark basement rooms and abandoned warehouses, scar-faced gangsters and brutal interrogations and _oh fuck_ she needs to find Monty, now!  

Just before panic engulfs her, she has one last clear thought: Go find Bellamy. 

Which is how she comes to be standing in front of a sleek, modern apartment building, biting down tears as she rings the doorbell. 

"Monty's gone!" She practically yells into the intercom as soon as she hears it crackle on the other end. She's aware that she must sound pretty hysterical, but she doesn't give a fuck right now. 

"Clarke?" Bellamy's surprised voice replies through the intercom. For a moment, Clarke is impressed by the fact that he correctly guessed her identity from her screeching, then she spots the beady eye of a camera above her head. 

"What's going on?" 

"Monty's gone, that's what's going on. And you promised to keep him safe!"  

The door clicks open and Clarke storms in, energised by the prospect of having someone to yell at, and someone as deserving as Bellamy no less.

She doesn't let him get one word in before she's planted herself right before him, chin raised and brows furrowed, to poke him in the chest with one merciless finger. 

"You promised to keep him safe! You _promised_!" That seems to be the only thing she can focus on, so she repeats it once more, teary-eyed and wobbly-voiced. "You promised."

He puts up with it for a surprisingly long time before snatching her hand out of mid-air and pulling it against his chest, effectively immobilising it. She briefly considers continuing the action with her other hand, then thinks better of it. 

"Calm down." 

"Easy for you to say," she fumes, nowhere near calm. 

"Just breathe." He actually demonstrates, breathing in and out exaggeratedly. She can feel his chest rising and falling with the movement, and to her own irritation, her breathing slowly falls into a rhythm with his, much slower and deeper than it was when she first got here. 

"Now," he adds when he's apparently satisfied with her oxygen intake, "tell me what happened." 

"What happened is that I can't reach Monty."

"And that's unusual?" 

She nods. "He usually calls or texts back within an hour or two." 

Maddeningly, Bellamy's face does not give away if he finds this at all worrisome. He does, however, drop her hand and steer her over to the couch with one hand to her lower back. 

"How long has it been now?"  

Clarke looks at her watch. "Six hours." 

"And Monty would never leave you without a reply for that amount of time? What if his phone battery died?" 

"He always carries a power bank and a charging cable with him. And there's always his ipad." Bellamy raises an eyebrow skeptically. "He's a total tech addict." 

"Alright. So when was the last time you spoke to him? Did he say anything about his plans for today?" 

Clarke thinks for a moment, Bellamy staying patiently silent as he waits for her reply. 

"He was planning some kind of anniversary brunch with Miller, but then he also wasn't sure if Miller would have to work today, so I don't know what happened with that plan..."

"So when you texted him, there's a chance he was simply distracted." 

The question is irritating - or rather, the assumption that she didn't think of that herself is. 

"I'd assume so," Clarke replies tartly, "which is why I didn't call in the first place." 

Bellamy nods, prompting her to continue.  

"It wasn't urgent and I was pretty busy, so I didn't look at my phone for a few hours. But when I checked again around noon, there was still no answer. So I called after all, because I figured even if he was with Miller, they were probably done with their brunch. No answer. I tried again about every thirty minutes or so..." 

"Persistent, aren't you?" 

Clarke rolls her eyes at Bellamy's interjection. 

"I'm not always like that. But I got last minute tickets to a play we'd been planning to go see for a long time, and I knew Monty would kill me if I took someone else." 

"Alright, fair point. So when you couldn't get through to him did you reach out to any of your other friends to ask if they knew anything?" 

The interrogation continues like this for what feels like ages, Bellamy asking ever more specific questions and Clarke trying to answer them as precisely as she can. She has to admit, his calm demeanor makes it easier to keep it together herself, but the hint of worry on his face when he's finished cross-examining her still makes her stomach clench. 

"So? What do we do now?" She asks, a little scared he'll say "Nothing". 

But instead, Bellamy looks her in the eyes, steady and determined, and says: "Now we find him." 

He gets up, presumably to fetch some sort of spy gadget that will help them, and Clarke takes the opportunity to look around the room. 

The large open-plan apartment is clean and uncluttered and looks like the home of a person who isn't really home all that much - a look she knows from her apartment, even if it tends to be a lot messier. There's a kitchenette along the far wall, a bed in one corner and a rack of weights and other fitness equipment in the other. Everything is utilitarian to the point of being spartanic, with one glaring exception: the bookcase, facing a worn leather sofa and practically overflowing with books. Squinting, Clarke tries to read some of their titles, curious to know what an international spy would read in his free time. There's a lot of history and mythology, biographies and memoirs, and a smaller section of non-fiction - politics, psychology, sociology.... He's definitely a well-read spy. 

Bellamy returns just then, but the piece of tech in his hands is nothing more than one of those bluetooth headsets douchey guys usually wear in order to have loud conversations on the subway. He slides it in place behind his curls, looking surprisingly non-ridiculous, then gets out his phone and starts tapping on it. 

"You're going to find him with just your phone?" Clarke can't help but ask, because honestly, this is a little underwhelming. 

"Quite the opposite." He flashes her a short grin, cocky but somehow reassuring, "I'm bringing out the big guns."

"Literally or figuratively?"

Again that flash of a grin. "Both."

Then he presses the call button on his phone and she hears it ringing, getting fainter as he walks towards the bookcase and pulls out a book. Clarke briefly wonders if he's gone mad - but then the entire right side of the bookcase slides sideways to reveal an actual  _hidden closet_  full of  _guns_. 

While Clarke is still trying to process this - she's never even seen  _one_ gun up close, for crying out loud, let alone a good dozen! - Bellamy starts talking, explaining to someone on the other end of the phone call that he needs help in finding a missing person. There's a brief pause as the person seems to be asking a question, then Bellamy explains again. 

"Miller's boyfriend." 

Another pause. 

"I would, but he's still on assignment."

Filling in the gaps in this one-sided conversation is an irritating task, but it keeps her from freaking out about Monty, so Clarke keeps listening intently, wondering if she should tell Bellamy to just put the stupid phone on loudspeaker. But he's currently taking guns out of his secret murder cupboard, and Clarke decides that maybe now is not the best time to question his phone etiquette. 

"A friend of Monty's showed up worried because he's been missing for eight hours."

Again the crackle of the voice, too distorted to make out the words. 

"I know that's not much, but apparently they're close and Monty's pretty good about answering his phone..." The crackling voice on the other end cuts him off. "No she's not hysterical. Worried, yes, but she's pulled herself together, and her story makes sense."

Wow, Clarke thinks sarcastically to herself, what high praise. 

But Bellamy is apparently getting as impatient as she is, because he barks into the headset: "Just look for the damn number, Raven!" and the voice actually falls silent. 

Suddenly, Bellamy is standing next to her, taking off his headset and putting it on her head instead, carefully tucking aside her hair so that it doesn't get caught in it. 

"Tell her Monty's number."

But of course, she doesn't know the number by heart, and has to fumble around for it in her phone. And just when she's managed to navigate to her contacts with trembling fingers, a sharp female voice whips at her ear: 

"Bell? What the fuck is taking so long?"

"Sorry, just looking for the number now."

"Ah. The friend." The woman sounds less than enthusiastic about having to talk to her. 

"Yes, I'm the friend", Clarke snaps, irritated once more with these rude people. "And I'm trying to help, but I'm not dealing with potential kidnapping _s_ and fucking  _gun closets_  every day, so  _excuse_ me for needing a moment to adjust."

"Ah. The  _gun closet_. That means he's trying to impress you."

Clarke almost drops her phone. 

"He what now?"

The woman actually cackles. "Just wait until he gets out the motorcycle. Bellamy Blake, glamorous super spy...." 

Suddenly, the headset is yanked off her head, and Bellamy's face is right next to hers as he growls into the microphone: "Will you please shut up and focus on running the goddamn number!"

"Yeah, yeah," is Raven's muffled reply, and Bellamy puts the headset back in place on Clarke's head. "Alright, hit me with the digits." 

It takes Clarke a moment to get her bearings even as Bellamy steps back, because he was  _right there_  just then, almost nose to nose with her, and even now that he's gone back to towering over her and glowering darkly, there's a little hint of red on his cheeks, and she wonders despite her frayed nerves if Raven was right about the gun closet. 

She shakes her head to clear it. Monty, she reminds herself, he's the only reason she's here. Voice steady, she dictates his phone number to Raven, then waits as the other woman falls silent and all she can hear is the rapid click-clack of a keyboard on the other end of the line. Clarke entertains herself with watching Bellamy for a bit as he decides which guns to take with him, following the play of the muscles on his arms and back as he slips on one of those shoulder holster belts she's seen on TV cops and slips a gun into the pouches on each side. Then he grabs a leather jacket off a hook on the wall beside the bookcase and shrugs into it, causing his shirt to ride up a little so she can see the sliver of tan skin between his dark shirt and his belt.

She's brought back to reality, hard, when Raven says: "Shit." Then, urgently: "Hand me back to Bellamy, will you?"

Clarke obeys, and watches as Bellamy's face darkens within seconds of Raven's explanation. 

"You sure?"

Raven's reply is short - most likely affirmative, because Bellamy's frown deepens. 

"Alright, I'm heading out there. Can you get me eyes on the building?"

Another short reply as Bellamy pushes a book back in place and the secret weapon's closet slides shut again, firmly ignoring Clarke until she can't take it any longer.  

"What's going on?"

"Raven traced the phone signal."

"I figured. And...?" 

"And it leads to a warehouse owned by the Wallace family. One of the biggest players in all sorts of crime in the area."

"Wait, the Wallace family - as in, Dante and Cage?" 

Bellamy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You know them?"

"Very little. They're one of the biggest donors at my hospital, so every once in a while we all get drafted into leading them around and telling them about the great things we've been doing with their money. They don't really seem to care much though."

Bellamy snorts. "I bet they don't. Their charity is most likely for tax reasons."

Bellamy grabs some car keys off a rack by the door, then turns back to her with his hand already on the doorknob.

"Alright, I'm checking out the warehouse. You can stay here, and text me as soon as you hear from Monty."

"No way. I'm coming with you."

"Like hell you are."

"He's my friend, Bellamy. I want to be there when you find him. And what if he needs medical attention? Wouldn't it be good to have a doctor there?" 

"Maybe. Or maybe the doctor gets hurt too and I'd have two dead civilians on my hands."

Clarke can practically feel the blood draining from her face, and Bellamy flinches.

"Sorry. I didn't mean... I'm sure your friend is still alive."

"How can you be?"

He hesitates, looking at her as if trying to decide something.

"You want the ugly truth?"

She nods.

"Because whoever took him, it makes no sense for them to kill him. Either they took him to hurt Miller, in which case they'll need to actually let Miller know they have him. Or they think he knows something and they want it - which also takes time." 

He doesn't need to spell it out for Clarke to understand what he means.

The thought alone is enough to make the fear in her stomach turn to hot, heavy anger. _No one_ is going to lay hands on her best friend - not while she's got a super spy with a motorcycle and a gun closet and, she hopes, deadly combat skills.

"Let's go get him then."

There really _is_ a motorcycle, but Clarke is too distraught and angry to take much notice of it, or to spare more than a fleeting thought to Raven's earlier words about impressing her. She does, briefly, marvel at the fact that his broad shoulders provide complete coverage from the wind, and that, with her arms around his waist, she feels a lot safer than she probably should while sitting on a motorcycle with a stranger. But that's all the distraction she allows herself from the problem at hand: Someone wants to hurt Monty, and she's not going to let them. 

In any case, they only ride a few blocks on the motorcycle before Bellamy steers them into the dilapidated backyard of a dry cleaning business that looks like it's seen better days.

"Alright, Princess, your carriage awaits," Bellamy comments snarkily as he parks his bike, then leads her over to a delivery van parked at the back of the lot. It must have been blue at some point, but has now taken on a slightly rusty tinge, and there are several dents and scratches along its sides.

"We'll need to stake out the place without being seen," he explains, a little less snarkily, and Clarke nods and clambers into the passenger seat.

Then they're off again, heading towards an industrial area near the harbor. This time, when Bellamy pulls into a loading dock, she knows they've reached their destination. Beside her, Bellamy is calm but tense, attentively looking around as he navigates them to a somewhat concealed spot near the back of the loading dock and kills the motor.

He fumbles around under his seat for a moment, and suddenly the wall of the driver's cabin swings open towards the back of the van. Bellamy clambers through and motions for her to follow, and suddenly, as if she'd stepped into a parallel universe, Clarke finds herself surrounded by monitors and keyboards and a variety of gadgets she can't even begin to imagine uses for. 

Clarke gasps, and Bellamy turns around to give her a small smile - although one that fades again quickly.

"I borrowed one of our surveillance vans."

Clarke is still looking around, stunned, while Bellamy gets out a little black case and fumbles something into his ear. Then he holds out a second, similar piece. Fitting easily into the palm of his hand, it looks like a hearing aid.

"Put this in your ear. You're staying in here while I scope out the place, but if you notice anything happening out there, you tell me."

Clarke nods in understanding and carefully pushes the soft piece to her ear, wincing as it emits a high-pitched feedback whistle.

"Sorry," Bellamy says curtly, snapping shut the black box and turning to the array of monitors. He presses a few buttons and the monitors turn on, showing her a comprehensive view of the area as well as one infrared view of the building before them. She can make out several human shapes, one of them sitting down while flanked by two others.

"Monty!" She breathes out excitedly. 

"We can't be sure of that yet. Not until I have visual confirmation. So you," taking her by the shoulders, he pushes her down on the little folding seat before the monitors, "are going to stay here and wait while I scope out the area. Now these,” he points to the earpieces they're both wearing, “have a microphone built in, so if there's anything happening here, you tell me." 

One glance at the monitors to make sure there's no one right outside the van, then he opens the door.

"And whatever happens, do NOT get out of the car."

The door slams shut, and Clarke quickly locks it from the inside before sitting back down again, watching on the monitor as Bellamy quickly makes his way to the warehouse before them. Pressing himself against the wall, he peers inside one of the dusty windows, checking that the air's clear, before he quickly smashes the window and lunges through it on a flying roll, miraculously without so much as touching the jagged glass sticking up from the windowframe.

The microphone on the earpiece must be pretty sensitive, because Clarke can hear everything: Bellamy's quiet breathing, his careful steps as he advances further into the building, distant clanging and groaning further in the bowels of the warehouse complex... and, eventually, voices.

“Do you see them?”

“I said tell me if anything happens out there, not use the mic to pester me.”

“Sorry,” Clarke breathes, swallowing her childish indignation. He's getting himself into a risky situation, alone, to find her friend. The least she can do is be quiet and not distract him.

Clarke sticks to that resolution as she listens breathlessly for any sign of Monty or his kidnappers, eyes carefully scanning the monitors just like Bellamy told her to.

Bellamy must be getting closer to whoever is in the building, because the voices are getting louder and clearer, and suddenly, she can make out words – and one in particular that makes her gasp in shock.

“We'll get that bastard Miller if we go through him, I'm sure of it.”

“But we don't _have_ him, do we?” The annoyed, drawling voice sounds vaguely familiar even over the microphone.

“We have his phone. We know where he lives, what he does. He's some kind of nerd, probably won't even put up a fight. Just say the word, boss, and we'll snatch him up.”

Clarke feels her heart stutter in her chest as she figures out who they're talking about – and then speed up again as it occurs to her what it means.

“They don't have Monty?”, she hisses into the headset, careful to be quiet so as not to startle Bellamy into giving up his position.

“No.” Bellamy's reply is short, no doubt due to the need to be quiet.

“But they want to kidnap him to get to Miller,” Clarke adds, still piercing together what she just heard and what it means.

“We won't let them,” Bellamy growls. “Now stay quiet.”

She does as she's told, listening anxiously as the man addressed as “boss” - whose sleazy voice she thinks she has correctly identified as Cage Wallace's – tells his goons to go through with their plan, then turns his attention to other matters.

Clarke doesn't really listen to the next matter discussed, however, because she's disctracted by a sudden flurry of activity in the docking yard. A truck is pulling up to the warehouse, two men jumping out to quickly unload a few crates and boxes while three big, burly men come out of the warehouse to take the cargo and inspect it. 

Clarke holds her breath, wondering if this constitutes something she needs to tell Bellamy about, but after a short, aggressive conversation, the two delivery men get back into the truck and drive off again. 

She's just about to let go of the breath she's been holding when one of the muscle-packed goons stops in his tracks and looks straight at her van.

Then he calls out to the other men and points at the van, and Clarke's blood seems to freeze in her veins as they set down their cargo and start walking towards her.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, deciding that this is definitely a development he needs to know about, “there are some guys out here getting pretty interested in the van...”

“Have they seen you?”

“No, but they're coming closer.” 

The men are now circling the van, rattling on door handles and debating amongst themselves. One of them walks back towards the warehouse, and Clarke prays that the others will lose interest in her and follow him back inside.

She has no such luck, however: The man returns with a crowbar in hand, and now Clarke really starts to panic.

“I think they're going to break into the van.”

There's muffled cursing in her ear, then Bellamy's quiet voice. “Don't make a sound. I'm coming to distract them.”

True to his word, just as the driver's side door of the van creaks under the force of the crowbar, Clarke sees Bellamy emerge from the warehouse and lunge at the man nearest him. The man is down on the ground after a short tussle, but the two other are already turning on Bellamy, and despite the fact that he seems to be doing a lot of damage with quick, precise hits, the two are nonetheless closing in on him. And then the third man picks himself up and jumps on Bellamy's back, and soon he's pinned against the side of the van, and Clarke stifles a scream when one of them punches him hard in the stomach and he doubles over.

Time to act, she decides. 

Looking around, Clarke's eyes fall onto what she first assumes is a police baton - until she sees the little prongs sticking out at its tip.

Perfect. 

One last look at the monitor, one experimental push of the button on the side of the baton, then she throws open the back door of the van, sticks out her arm, and jams the baton into the side of the nearest attacker. Fist closed around the grip of the baton so tight her fingers hurt, she presses down on the button until the man goes down, body twitching with electric aftershocks.

The two who have been pinning Bellamy against the van look over and let go of him for a moment, and even though he's bleeding and clearly a little dazed, Bellamy makes use of the distraction to push them off and throw himself in the driver's seat.

"Close the door!" Bellamy yells and Clarke complies just in time before the van screeches off and she can be thrown out the back door. 

For a moment, she just sits pressed against the side of the van, trying to get her racing heart to calm down – although actually, it turns out, it's her head that's the problem, because it currently has trouble catching up with everything that's happening. Monty isn't here, and she is being followed by a car full of armed and dangerous criminals. 

And before she's even begun to try and process these facts, there's a loud bang and the whole car rocks. Another bang follows immediately after, and another, and finally Clarke understands what's happening.

"They're shooting at us!" She yells in Bellamy's direction, as if there was a chance he hadn't heard the ear-splitting noise yet.

"I know. I'm trying to shake them off.”

"I don't think it's working," Clarke yells back, and now there's definite hysteria in her voice. 

Bellamy swerves hard, then turns abruptly into another direction - to no avail: on the monitor showing the rearfacing camera, their pursuers are still hot on their heels.

Another volley of bullets hits the back of the van, leaving clear dents in the steel, and Clarke throws herself through the door to the driver's cabin.

Bellamy glances only briefly in her direction.

"You okay?"

"I'm not hit, if that's what you mean."

"Good," he says, and suddenly she's pulled into his lap, squished between his chest and the steering wheel, "cause I'm gonna need you to drive." 

"What?" Clarke squeaks out.

"You know how to drive right?"

He doesn't wait for her answer, which Clarke takes to mean that she doesn't really have the option of _not_ knowing.

"Alright, take the wheel." She does as she's told. "Now put your feet over mine on the pedals. On 3, I'm moving away, and you're moving your feet into place and pushing down as hard as you can." Bellamy says it with such certainty, like he knows that everything will happen exactly as he orders it to, that Clarke can't help but believe him. Then he counts down, squeezes himself out of the seat, and Clarke slams down her feet. 

Next thing she knows, Clarke is driving the van, hurtling down the street at 90 miles an hour while Bellamy leans out the window to shoot at the car behind them. She barely manages to identify the parts of the city rushing by, but she has just figured out that they've reached the harbor and are racing towards the basin.

That's when Bellamy cries out next to her and throws himself back into his seat, clutching his arm with a pained expression.

“Did you just get _shot_?”

“Just a little. Keep driving.”

With that, he turns back and leans out once more, but another volley of bullets forces him to retreat inside the car again.

“Dammit, we're not shaking them.” He seems to be thinking for a moment, before he abruptly says: “Turn left.”

“Left?” She's racing along the edge of the basin now, with warehouses and loading cranes to her right – and nothing but ships and water to her left.

“On the next pier, yes.”

“How is that helping us?”

“Just do it.”

The next pier comes up, branching out from the harbor wall and broad enough to drive onto it with a car. It is _possible_ to drive onto it – she just doesn't understand why.

But next thing she knows, Bellamy's hand is on hers on top of the steering wheel, slick with blood.

“Do you trust me?" 

_Does_ she trust him? Before her mind can decide on an answer, her hands turn the steering-wheel and they make a sharp left onto the pier, the wooden planks rattling underneath them as they keep racing along – and their pursuers, she sees in the side mirror, are doing the same thing.

“What now?”

“Now we jump out.”

“Right now?”

“One second. Get ready.”

He leans out the window once more and shoots, and in the mirror, Clarke sees that a sail from an anchored boat has come loose and is slowly drifting down behind them, shielding them from view of the other car.

“Now!” Bellamy yells, and Clarke opens the door, takes a deep breath, and pushes herself out.

She _just_ makes it past the wooden edge of the pier, leg grazing the planks, and hits the water hard. It shoots up her nose painfully and she makes the mistake of gasping in response, so now her mouth is filled with dirty harbor water as well. When she comes up, coughing and sputtering and spitting out water, she's immediately pulled backwards, into the shadow under the pier – Bellamy has made it to her side, pulling her along with one arm and paddling with his feet while his injured arm drags uselessly through the water. 

The thought of the sheer amount of bacteria getting into his wound is enough to get her focused once more, at least enough to understand Bellamy's instructions. 

“Stay under the pier and swim back towards the harbor wall as fast and as quietly as you can.”

She nods and starts swimming in earnest, fearfully glancing up for a sign of their pursuers above them. A large shadow indicates they're passing beneath the thugs' car, and Clarke speeds up to make it to the stone wall at the end of the pier. She used to be a fairly good swimmer, but with her current hours, she doesn't get much time for any sort of workout, and by the time Clarke finally reaches the wall, she's already fairly exhausted.

Luckily, there's a small stony ledge in the wall, just high enough to keep her head and shoulders out of the water when she stands on it, and a very convenient metal bar she can hold on to so as not to slip off the slimy, algae-covered stone.

Bellamy reaches her a few seconds later and follows her example, simply clinging on to the metal handhold and breathing hard for several seconds. It worries her to see him so winded, because he's obviously in much better physical shape than her. His wound must be getting to him, and the temperature of the water, while not outright freezing, is still too low to allow any prolonged stay, especially for someone who's losing blood rapidly.

“What now?” 

“Now we wait until they believe we went down with the van.”

“What if they don't? We can't stay here long. The water's too cold, and you're bleeding."

"I've noticed. We won't have to stay here long. Raven knows that we were pursued and drove the car off the pier. She'll do something to draw them away, and hopefully send backup as well." 

She takes a moment to study him. He looks unnaturally pale, no doubt due to the blood loss, and at this rate it won't be long before he passes out. Making a decision, she fumbles off her belt with one hand.

"I need to do something about the bleeding, at least."

But while getting off the belt with one hand was possible, if a little fumbly, attaching it is not. The moment she lets go of the bar to use both hands, she slips off the algae-covered ledge and underwater.

She propels herself upward and grabs a hold of the metal bar again, clucking her tongue irritatedly – there's no way she's going to be able to properly apply the tourniquet with one hand.

But just as she's pondering this problem, Bellamy swings over towards her, trapping her between the wall and his body while holding on to the bar above them with his uninjured arm.

“Now you can work with both hands. I'll keep you from going under,” he explains, and when Clarke tentatively lets go of her handhold, she realises he's right – she's pinned safely in place.

With that taken care of, she can get to work on his arm, but it's a fact she has to actively remind herself of: for a moment, she's simply frozen in place, overwhelmed by the sudden knee-to-hip-to-chest contact, by the discovery that his freckles are much more numerous than she previously noticed and the fact that his lips look soft and kissable and she wants to wipe away the dried drop of blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth from where he must have received a hit earlier.

The sight of blood finally brings her back to her senses and to the task she should be focusing on, and with heat crawling into her cold cheeks, she frees her hands from where they're pinned between them and gently takes hold of his arm.

He hisses in pain and a fresh swirl of blood is released into the harbor basin, and Clarke does her best to move slowly and carefully.

“I'm sorry, but this is gonna hurt for a bit.”

“I know,” he grinds out, and she wonders how often he's sustained injuries like this. If she went through with the fleeting thought of taking off his clothes, how many scars would she find on his tan skin? She's afraid of the answer.

Pushing aside the thought, Clarke wraps the belt around his arm just above the bullet wound, careful not to jostle it too much, then pulls it as tight as she can.

She can feel Bellamy jerk against her as the remaining blood is pressed downward in his arm, can feel his body tense against hers in pain. Tying off the belt as quick and as tight as she can, she lowers his arm so that it rests on her shouder, then loops her arms around him and soothingly strokes down his back until she can gradually feel him relax against her, his head coming to rest on her other shoulder as he takes a few deep, steadying breaths.

“I'm sorry.”

“Had to be done.” His words are muffled, but his breathing is normalising once again – she can tell by the puffs of warm breath hitting the cold skin above her collarbone every time he exhales. 

She thinks she should probably want to push him away, but the reasoning behind it, which must have made sense at some point, doesn't really manage to make it through her fuzzy head. The thing that matters is that he's in pain because he tried to keep her alive. If he needs a moment, he'll have it. She continues her soothing motions and asks:

“Do you get banged up like this often?“

“Pretty regularly, yeah. It's a side effect of the job." 

“And let me guess, you always say it's just a scratch and refuse to be properly treated.“

He lifts his head to look at her, surprise written on his face.

“I get that type a lot in the ER, and you seem to fit the bill. You need to be more careful with your health, okay?“

“You work in the ER?"

That's not really what she wanted him to take away from this conversation, but Clarke is starting to feel the cold from the water, so any distracting conversation is welcome. 

“I do. I was thinking about getting into a more specialised field after my internship, but then I realised I kind of love working in the ER – helping people right away, without the time for long consultations; it suits me. I think I'm too impatient for anything that works at a slower pace.”

Bellamy cocks his head to the side to study her, and Clarke suddenly realizes that the reason he's still so close she could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose is because he's still holding them both above the water, which must be incredibly taxing. Overcome with guilt, Clarke lifts a hand up to the metal bar above to hold herself up, and Bellamy swings sideways again once he realises she can stay on the ledge on her own once more. She takes his injured arm and places it on her shoulder once more to keep it out of the dirty harbor water, but that's the only point of contact between their bodies now, and cold water rushes at her so suddenly Clarke almost regrets her decision – for no other reason than that he was doing a pretty good job of keeping her a little less cold, of course. 

“Well, your ER experience certainly came in handy today. Not only are you keeping me from bleeding out, you also kept your head in a dangerous situation. Not many civilians would have.”

Clarke's mouth drops open at the unexpected praise. “Why, Agent Blake, are you _complimenting_ me?”

“Just accept it,” he says gruffly, but she thinks she sees a splash of color on his pale cheeks. 

Still, just because he blushes adorably doesn't mean she'll let him off the hook for being a condescending dick before.

“Well, it's not as flattering as hearing how I'm not even being _hysterical_...”

He makes a playful grimace.

“You can't hold that against me – I didn't even know you then.”

“That was like three hours ago. And I'm pretty sure you knew a lot about me from your spying.” 

“That's not the same. Now I know what you're _really_ made of. And that you can administer medical aid under pretty weird circumstances. And that you're a kickass driver.”

It's pretty blatant flattery, but he looks and sounds sincere, and Clarke has to admit she does feel a little proud of herself right now, for being alive if nothing else.

“Stop, my ego will get out of control.” She's trying to sound sarcastic, but Clarke can't help the little smile tugging at her lips, or the unguarded laugh bubbling up inside her.

“I'm trying to be nice here,” Bellamy chides, but his pout is as fake as the way she rolls her eyes.

What's real is the fear shooting through her when the planks of the pier above them creak along with the sound of footsteps, and Bellamy tenses with sudden wariness beside her when the footsteps stop right above them.

“Blake? You down there?”

Clarke freezes, her breath coming in shallow gasps at the thought that the Wallaces' goons figured out Bellamy's identity and their hiding-place.

But when her eyes find Bellamy, he seems calm, if a little green.

“I am, Sir,” he yells upwards, and a second later, she hears movement up on the pier as his response is apparently heard.

“It's my boss,” Bellamy explains, and she's thankful for the confirmation that she can stop fearing for her life now.

“So we're safe,” Clarke realises, insides soaring with relief.

“Well, you are. I am in big trouble.”

“What? Why?”

“For one thing, I took an agency vehicle to go on an unauthorised mission with a civilian whose life I endangered in the process. And also because when Miller messed up his assignment to go on a movie date with your friend Monty, I bet him that I'd never fuck up like this for a civilian. So now I owe him fifty bucks.” 

“Oh well, Monty's pretty awesome. Everyone would fuck up because of him.”

Bellamy looks at her silently for a moment, a flash of hesitation on his face followed by determination.

“It's not him I did this for. Not really.”

With that, he pushes off the harbor wall and starts paddling out from underneath the shadow of the pier, leaving her behind to gape at him as she figures out what he meant.

By the time she does, Bellamy has reached the rope ladder that is being lowered into the water from above and is pulling himself up, struggling to hold on to the rope with one hand. Clarke follows immediately, as if hanging onto the ladder below him would in any way enable her to help if he loses his grip. As irrational as it is, she still feels the need to make sure he's alright. Doctor's instinct, she tells herself, nothing else. And certainly nothing to do with the fact that he apparently risked not just his life but his boss' goodwill just to help her.

As soon as she clambers onto the pier, Clarke is surrounded by people: Paramedics wrapping her in a blanket and asking her if she's hurt. People in suits, presumably from the agency, with more questions about what happened and how. Someone handing her a bottle of water and guiding her to a bench to sit down.

But through the whole chaos, all she can see is Bellamy, being guided to sit down on a stretcher by a nearby ambulance as two paramedics take in his blood-stained shirt and the way he gingerly holds his arm.

Pushing away the nearest suit, she makes her way over to the ambulance.

“He's been shot in the left arm, a through-and-through. I only managed to apply a tourniquet and stop the bleeding several minutes later, so there might still be significant blood loss. Plus, we were in the water for several minutes,” she informs the paramedics, then steps aside to let them do their job.

“You applied first aid while hiding from Wallace's men?”

The surprised voice belongs to the man she saw talking to Bellamy earlier, and judging by his apparent seniority, she assumes it's his boss.

“Well, he could hardly do it himself, after he was shot trying to keep me safe.”

The man smiles, transforming his severe face into a much warmer expression.

“Don't worry, Ms. Griffin – as Agent Blake's superior, I promise I will go easy on him. There will be some sort of disciplinary action, of course, but all in all, your little adventure today gave us valuable insight into the Wallaces' plans.” 

Clarke nods, relieved, and doesn't protest when one of the paramedics comes over to check up on her. Apart from a case of very mild hypothermia, she survived the whole ordeal without a scratch, and gets some good news on top of it:

“We managed to get a hold of your friend Mister Green as well. It turns out he and Agent Miller had left for a spontaneous trip to the mountains and neglected to inform anyone. They're both on their way back, and will be brought to a safe house until we're sure they're not a target anymore.”

While Clarke is still processing this, not sure if she's more relieved that Monty's safe or pissed that he failed to tell her, Bellamy's boss tells her that she's free to go home as long as she comes in for a full statement the next day. 

“I'll give you a lift home,” he offers and starts to gently lead her over to a nearby car.

But Clarke hesitates, looking back towards the ambulance where the paramedics are helping Bellamy onto a stretcher for the ride to the hospital.

And looking at him, Clarke realizes with sudden renewed energy that there's one more thing she needs to do before she can go home and rest.

“Just a second,” she tells the man, then turns and strides back towards the ambulance.

“Wait,” she calls out at the surprised paramedics, stopping them from closing the ambulance and clambering inside instead. Bellamy frowns when he sees at her, as if the sight of her makes him expect more reasons to worry, but there's only one thing she has to say.

“Thank you, Bellamy. For helping me find my friend, and for keeping me alive.”

With that, and with the kind of courage that can only come from surviving trigger-happy gangsters, a high-speed car chase and a drop into the harbor basin, Clarke pulls him close by the back of his neck and kisses him.

Bellamy stays completely still for an awkwardly long moment before he finally brings his uninjured arm up to her waist to pull her close, his lips opening under hers on a sigh, and Clarke deepens the pressure of her lips on his and thinks that, excitement-wise, kissing Bellamy Blake surpasses even the most adrenaline-fuelled car chase.

A discreet cough behind her makes her draw back eventually to catch one of the paramedics grinning openly, the other looking rather impatient.

But Bellamy is _smiling,_ and the sight is more impressive than all the cool spy stuff and quick fighting moves in the world.

“Find me when you're done being patched up,” she says, then finally jumps down from the ambulance. The last thing she sees before the paramedics close the door is Bellamy bringing a hand up to his lips with a rather dazed look, and she giggles at the sight – badass super spy, indeed.

She can't wait for their next adventure. 

 


End file.
